


Turin Turambar Cursed of Morgoth

by LindaMaceMichalik



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 13:57:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17561717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindaMaceMichalik/pseuds/LindaMaceMichalik
Summary: Of the dark hero, doomed through his sire , a poem





	Turin Turambar Cursed of Morgoth

Dispossesed,  
shorn of light,  
shorn of hope,  
alone.  
  
Choiceless,  
he fought on.  
  
Black sword, helm cleaver,  
ill-favoured, traitorous blade,  
forged from earth-fallen metal,  
cursed as, and cursing it's wielder,  
no man was its master.  
  
Dragon helm, grotesque masque  
worn in joylessness, borne by a face  
that would have been handsome,  
buried beneath a hide of woes.  
  
Defiance in misery filled his days.  
Sadness beyond dreams filled his nights.  
Each day he yet lived  
was  a day of victory denied to the foe.  
  
Cold winds  
empty belly  
aching limbs  
frosted feet and hands.  
Black shadow on a grey land.  
Fire ravaged, blackened man hugging his blasted domain.  
  
Life clinging, striving, killing at the fringes.  
Fierce in the borrowed fire of his torched lands.  
Heedless yet haunted, in his fighting, death passed him by  
to gorge on his prey.  
  
Came a time, none of Morgoth dared go where  Dragon's Helm, Black Bane  
might be.  His fame as ever shall deal him ill.   
Twas ever his fate, cast and dealt for him twixt the devil and his sire.  
  
Wastelands with bloodied hands he prised apart,  
a narrow path to freedom between the walls of death  
across the blasted plains of his once sweet land.  
A path for the few to take, a land bridge away from the Dark Lord's Ire.  
  
For others to take, himself he held bounden.  
For his was the lordship,  
his by right was the vengeance,  
his the duty to hold back the tide.  
  
There he stayed.  
He asked for no future.  
He begged for no hope,  
nor no mercy.  
He had none to give and gave none.  
  
Holding sword, holding land,  
eating barely, drinking dew  
till no root could he find,  
no leaf, no comfort there.  
  
Move on son of man!  
Move on son of Hurin!  
No elves will aid you here.  
Future slayer of Strongbow  
your brother, your comrade,  
your liberator repaid  
with the kiss of your sword  
  
Ill made knight,  
move on!  
  
Your dark end is engraved -  
runes on the throne of your father's prison.  
Move on, your fate will not be denied.  
All that you are shall be laid waste -  
your father shall weep at Morgoth's feet  
and your mother will know how her children died.  
  
Till that day,

son of Hurin,  
move on!  
  
 

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a performance piece, posted on allpoetry.com originally and performed in Durham.


End file.
